


The ghosts of poets appear to the author at the England v Australia ODI: 23 June 2010

by GMWWemyss



Category: BETJEMAN John - Works, Cricket RPF, LARKIN Philip - Works, Original Work
Genre: Cricket, Gen, ODI - Freeform, Parody, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 18:10:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1657712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GMWWemyss/pseuds/GMWWemyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It being the Feast Day of Sir John Betjeman....</p>
            </blockquote>





	The ghosts of poets appear to the author at the England v Australia ODI: 23 June 2010

The ghosts of poets appear to the author at the England v Australia ODI:  
23 June 2010

I.

Thus the tourists end their innings,  
Par for Hampshire of the Rose;  
Old men fed on eggs and bacon  
Waken from their sun-drunk doze,  
Clutch their eggs-and-bacon neckties,  
And for England pray it goes,  
Defended wickets, banging bound’ries,  
Aussie fielding overthrows,  
Brilliant batting, rapid run-rates,  
And no lbw woes.

II.

Committee minutes, at the year’s drear end,  
Make two fat volumes. But they are not poems –  
Or even verse. In fact they’re rather worse,  
A prosy sort of prose: the old toad, work,  
Has in its head no facet of a jewel.

But _Wisden,_ now, that hoard of wisdom set  
In columns of statistics, does conceal  
A special poetry. Hop off, old toad,  
Today is for the cricket, and today  
I am for cricket, skiving, glad to skive.  
Hop off, old toad, whilst England’s innings last.

Much better, then, a wicket to defend,  
A boundary to smash; the tide that stems  
The tide of toadly labour, vapid verse,  
Let us embrace, and harrowed labours shirk:  
On such a day, to slave for pay is cruel.

O let there be no hindrance, toads, no let,  
To stay us from the ‘howzat’, the appeal;  
The yorker bowled, the six beyond the rope,  
Outsoaring the pavilion. Stop not play,  
Good rain, and let the surging batsman drive  
The ball as Grace did in the days now past.

_How horrid to be made to stay away_  
_By supervisors threatening one’s pay:_  
_Thank God I am not middle-class like they._

III.

I am not given out; o, hear me.  
Let not the Aussie bowling come too near me.

I am not given out; do let me  
Bang sixes that _Wisden_ shall not soon forget me.

I am not leg before; uphold me,  
And let me not be caught behind lest Straussy scold me.

_And it’s no go the Strine appeal, no go lbw,_  
_We’ll keep the wicket safe and Oz shall not trouble you,_  
_We’re all o’er your fifty-overs and primed for the Ashes,_  
_And all we want’re the gongs that come with winning summer matches._

IV.

I wandered lonely as a cloud  
That floats o’er Hampshire creases,  
Until I heard the cheering crowd  
Whose fond hope never ceases:  
Who think that England’s strife-ful side  
Can win off no-balls and a wide.

But – what is this? A marvel, sure,  
That makes the hope of wins endure:  
An Irishman with mighty bat  
Knocks Aussie bowling, just like that.

Good Lord, we’ve won, and Ponting’s face  
Looks like he’s seen the ghost of Grace.


End file.
